Finding Peace
by ABC Girl
Summary: CSI:Miami Horatio seeks comfort. May all who seek it find peace. HC


Title: Finding Peace  
  
Author: Andrea (abc3969@juno.com)  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Pairing: While I might explore the potential of other duos on occasion, my heart will always return to Horatio/Calleigh; and so, to my own muse I must be true.  
  
Disclaimer: Me no profit; you no sue.  
  
Archive: Is anybody archiving these? If so, just say so. I'll come visit.  
  
Spoilers: None  
  
Author's Notes: Please be warned, this is a rather dark piece, unlike anything else I've written. It begged to be written. So be it. While I had H/C in mind from the outset, I suppose this could make a passable Grissom/Sara fic as well, if that's your inclination, as it is mine. May all who seek it find peace.  
  
Feedback: If you please. Be gentle.  
  
*****  
  
It was happening again. He was being held captive by a specter of his own creation. The no-nonsense, stoic professional persona he'd adopted long ago was overtaking his head, his very soul.  
  
Sometimes, his most fervent wish was to turn 'it' off-the robotic creature he portrayed day after day. But he couldn't. That would hurt too much. He'd get hurt; other people he covertly cared about would get hurt. No. The robot must be allowed to continue on course. He'd have to deal with it as he always had.  
  
Only at night could he escape the bonds of his public face. He'd tried it all after the divorce. Flashing a badge could open doors and ensure that curious eyes looked the other way. He wasn't a cop gone bad, or even one headed down that road; he was merely a man groping in the dark trying to be, just BE. The meat markets masquerading as nightclubs didn't hold his interest. The biker bars contained too many familiar faces-previous suspects or collars. Best not frequent those. The adult-themed shops were just too creepy. The one place he found he could go when the world started closing in on him was nowhere, just walking aimlessly, gracelessly toward nothing and no one. He could retreat fully into his own head and make peace with himself on these walks. He could put physical distance between himself and temptations that assailed him daily. A miserable quandary it was-for him, solitude has always been a forced necessity and a debilitating curse. 'Damned if you do and damned if you don't' couldn't even begin to tell his story. But, sometimes, the solitude he felt was best was the one thing that held the power to destroy him. So, on and on he walked. Miles every night, until his legs would carry him no more. Often, a cab would have to deposit him at his front door when exhaustion prevented his unaided return home. Rain or shine, he walked. Unseasonably cool or stiflingly hot, he walked. Always alone. Always waging battle to protect his sanity.  
  
The first time he found himself here, shaking off his fugue state, he berated himself for dragging her into his torment, even if unwittingly. He would stand across the street from her apartment building most times, but occasionally, he would venture onto her doorstep, never making a sound or alerting neighbors to his presence. He was content simply to be near to her. Where she was, there was warmth, comfort and peace. He could relax just a bit and revel in her aura. Her strength became his strength, her formidability, his. Without even knowing it, she had become the bedrock upon which be built himself up.  
  
He never meant to come here. Each time he did it, he vowed it would be the last. He wouldn't pull her into the vortex with him. He wouldn't. Yet it was inevitable. When he pushed her away, she would claw her way right back to him. They were each drawn to the other, unable to stay away.  
  
One night not long ago, she sensed his disquieted presence outside her door. She gently pulled back the front widow drape and peered out across the lawn. Sure enough, he was there. As the drape drew back, he slid into the shadows, hoping she hadn't discovered him. Wanting to protect his fragile state, she closed the drape, letting on nothing. The repeat performance continued for several nights, with him always retreating and her letting him be.  
  
When she could stand it no longer, she had opened her door and stepped out into the inky night. Casually, yet with intent, she had strolled across the lawn into the street and toward the lamppost he leaned on. Without a word, she took both his hands in hers and turned, tracing a backward path to her door. He offered only token resistance at first, but gave in to her submissively.  
  
Since that night, he'd given up all pretenses and simply walked or even driven directly to her apartment without the aimless wanderings of before. They established a pattern without one word of discussion. He would knock; she would bid him enter. Hand-in-hand they would amble to her bedroom. Her most intimate place of rest became his sanctuary as well. With unspeakable tenderness, she would help divest him of his clothes, down to tee shirt and boxers. Then, she would ease him onto his back and cover him with the sheet and thin coverlet. Once she had seen to his comfort, she would tuck herself beside him, opening her arms, into which he would slide willingly.  
  
Then, and only then, sleep would come. Blessed sleep, rest for the soul. Nightmares at bay, day horrors forgotten. She had burrowed into his protective fortress and, by doing so, brought them both solace. 


End file.
